


Lights On Dark Roads

by thinkpink20



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-27
Updated: 2012-02-27
Packaged: 2017-10-31 19:45:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/347716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkpink20/pseuds/thinkpink20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is one of those people who measures his life by important moments.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lights On Dark Roads

John is one of those people who measures his life by important moments. He knows not everyone does this - most people are sort of smell-the-flowers type bastards, like Paul, who claim to treasure every moment. But John thinks that's pathetic; you have to have a hierarchy of moments - they can't _all_ be good - because how else would you tell positive from negative? He's not living every moment like it's his last, he's evaluating every moment to see whether it's important enough to _remember_ during his last.

But some moments don't need evaluating; some are just so stark that you _know_ the weight of their importance. Sadly, a considerable portion of his involve Paul. It sort of pisses him off sometimes (and by 'sort of' he means 'so much that he goes out and gets so drunk he can't see') that someone he loves so much doesn't love him quite the same way back. 

But most of the time - just like any other crush - he just takes whatever he can get. Paul stops humping Jane Asher's leg long enough to spend five minutes with him, and John's there. Paul gives over batting his eyelashes at the press long enough to flash John a look and John has a smile ready waiting. It's pathetic really, but then John thinks 'pathetic' pretty much describes him and his entire life.

Well, most of the time; when he's not thinking he's the greatest thing in the universe. Stark opposites but... well, John's never done things any other way.

So, when they're sat in a private waiting room at the airport in some city he can't even remember the name of in deepest America, John knows when he's having one of those 'important' moments. He feels it; takes a picture of it in his mind, files it away for later.

They've been on the road for months, date after date after date, with Brian shoe-horning in stupid press conferences here and visits to the sick and dying there. John has lost count of the amount of times he's had to pretend to be interested in what someone has to say over the past few weeks; if it's not journalists it's groupies trying to tell you their life story before you can just get on with fucking them. He hates it. He hates the stupid, ridiculous grin he has to plaster on for all of these people, and then on top of that he hates the fact that he hates it all, because _this_ is what they played the Kaiserkeller and The Top Ten Club for all those long, endless nights.

He's not sure how _that_ ended up being the real highlight - not sure how _those_ ended up being the days of his life.

And now, in the city whose name he can't remember, their flight has been grounded because of something. It could be any reason quite frankly; fans, snow, typhoon, Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse turning up. All that matters is that they're stuck in here, nothing to do because their bags have been checked and they can't leave the room for the baying mass outside. 

George and Ringo - resourceful little buggers that they are - have found a pack of cards from somewhere and are playing a crafty game of poker in the corner - a giant bag of Jelly Babies (that had been thrust into George's hand earlier) used in the place of money. So far Ringo is up, amassing quite a little pile of flour dipped men on the floor beside him.

Brian - another resourceful little bugger - caught an earlier flight, which means that Mal and Neil are now off somewhere, trying to sort this whole mess out. Leaving John to stew in his own thoughts (never a good idea) whilst Paul - recovering from a cold - sleeps on his shoulder.

And it's the weight of him that reminds John this is 'important'. The warmth of Paul's body pressed against him and the tickle of hair on his neck give John a sad, heavy weight in his stomach. He's tired, grumpy, pissed off at Brian, hungry, needs a pee and _really_ wants a bloody fag but - he's too scared to move. He doesn't want to shift in case Paul wakes and moves away. John will put up with the pain in his bladder and the pain in his stomach and the nicotine craving just to have _this._ He'll snatch this little time, he'll keep it and prolong it as much as he can, just because it's Paul.

Somewhere off in the distance, a Tannoy announces a flight to Newark, but no one looks up. Clearly that's not where they're headed next.

And Paul stirs, re-arranges himself slightly, lips smacking together lightly in his sleep, then settles again. John hears his breathing (stuffy because of the cold) and counts the beats; in, out. In, out. In, out.

It's getting dark outside already, though it's barely four o'clock, and out on the tarmac he can see coloured lights (well, maybe not _see_ them, they're more of a blur) - yellow, red, green. It reminds him that it's Christmas, or at least will be in a week or so. He imagines Cyn at home putting up the Christmas tree with a little help from Dot and a lot of hindering from Julian - she told him on the phone last night that he's wandering everywhere now; 'into everything' was the way she described it, and John had a picture of a little miniature him going through the wardrobes, riffling their stuff. He smiles at it in a very detached sort of way, pretends to her that he's as pleased as she is.

Paul, breaking John's thoughts, coughs in his sleep. 

Great, John thinks, I'll get that cold now, you bastard.

Then across the room, Ringo crows in triumph as he drags a large pile of George's jelly babies towards him and John mentally curses them and their noise. But Paul doesn't stir again, so John relaxes a little, lets his free shoulder drop. 

Paul's hair is a mess, falling at awkward angles across his face and John watches one strand shift every time Paul's eyes flicker with sleep. He takes in the familiar curve of Paul's nose (perfect nose; John is always secretly jealous of Paul's nose, so unlike his own) and those red lips, full like a girl's. John's never seen a bloke with such a girly mouth before - plump lips you can just imagine wrapped around your -

John's bladder reminds him this is not a good time to get aroused.

He sighs, though not too loudly. 

It's the smell of Paul too; something oddly like antiseptic over the past few days, ripe and like eucalyptus from all the cold remedies Neil has been shoving down his neck. And aftershave - the expensive stuff that Jane's mother buys him whenever she 'pops into Harrods'. He's always getting little gifts like that and - of course - Paul accepts it all graciously, wonderfully, in exactly the right way. John would be embarrassed, which would likely turn into abusive. He's still vaguely surprised that Cyn's mum even speaks to him; he's not good with parents.

John finds himself gazing at the blank white expanse of wall opposite him. It's quiet in the room, and he listens to nothing but the silence for a moment, realises that it's probably the first time he's heard anything quite like that in days. His breathing evens out and he thinks for a moment that perhaps he'll sleep too, but then he jerks himself awake, doesn't want to miss a moment of this; he can sleep on the plane whilst Paul flirts with the air stewardess, giving her a good dose of the old McCartney charm. He'll be sorry if he falls asleep and wastes this time now.

In his peripheral vision he catches Paul's hand twitch, uncomfortable in the slightly awkward sleeping position. John wants to reach out and still it, the way he does when he watches Julian sleep sometimes and his ragged little bunny has fallen out of his hands. John wants to set Paul right, lay his hand over his.

And then he smiles to himself, sharing a lone joke as he starts singing 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand' in his head. 

_Pathetic._ Stupid, too fat, odd-looking, emotionally blunted _freak._

But he still doesn't stop smiling.

And he hasn't realised that he's looking down at Paul again until Ringo (coming to pick up another of those unwanted bags of jelly babies) walks by him and whispers, "You're gazing again, Johnny."

With the arm unimpeded by a Paul-shaped lump, John lifts his hand and flicks Ringo the V. The smile he gets in return is more sad and gentle than teasing, and John is briefly grateful. Good old Ringo.

There is silence again for a little while, interrupted only by a seemingly random uproar from the baying mass outside; thankfully everything is muted inside the walls of the private room the airline staff somehow found for them. John wonders what it must have been that set the girls off this time, but then reminds himself it's like a chain reaction; one squeals, then the other squeals - next thing you've got a bloody Mexican wave of squealing. 

When it calms down again, he feels his eyelids begin to droop, calls himself back to life.

He thinks about Cyn. Yeah, that'll keep him awake; the guilt is enough to keep him awake for the rest of his life, if he was that sort of person. As it is he's decided he's a cold, callous bastard and that's why he sleeps peacefully. He thinks about being home with her again in a few days time, about the way she'll look at him as though he's her saviour (Christ, he can't even be his _own_ fucking saviour) and then pretend not to be hurt when he's like a stranger in the body of the boy she fell in love with.

Ah, Christmas - the family season.

John rolls his eyes at his own pessimism. If Paul had been awake instead of asleep, John could have told him about it and Paul could have added in something endlessly cheerful like the smile on the face of an infant or puppy dogs being reunited with their owners at this wonderful time of year. _That's_ what Paul is - John's optimism. Paul was given a shit-load and John was been given none, so the universe has lumped them together.

Though not as together as John would like, obviously.

And that was another thing that kept him warm at night too; the irony of the fact that thousands of teenage girls mooned over him whilst _he_ spent his time mooning over his best friend. Oh no, the irony wasn't lost. John hates those girls who turn up to the concerts with their 'I Love Paul' badges on and their sickly 'We love you Paul!' banners, but that's only because he knows he's like them. Bloody hell, he'd been gazing at Paul McCartney before they knew who the perfect-mouthed bastard even was. Sometimes he wants to shout, 'Hey! Hands off!'

But that wouldn't go well at gigs.

And then he realises - even if he could stop this, he wouldn't. Isn't that the nature of unrequited love? That you're in it until the very bitter end, still bare-knuckle fighting when everyone else has buggered off? That you know you shouldn't want it but you can't quite remember why, and that even though you have a thousand chances to get out, you never take one of them because it's that faulty gene in humans, to follow what they want instead of what they need. 

And just like all the other recorded cases of unrequited love in the world, John will keep going through it, feeling elation one minute and then dangerous sorrow the next. He'll keep getting ignored by Paul and he'll keep poking him in the side until he pays him a brief bit of attention; keep poking him to remind him, 'I'm still here - me. Remember me?' And they'll come tantalisingly close (or at least close in John's eyes, because he'll read it wrong) and then back off. 

Yeah, he's no different to anyone else. Unlike Paul, who is different to _everyone._

The silence of the room seems to have taken on a hum now. Outside the lights are winking on all over the tarmac, lighting up the runways far into the distance and it has started to rain, drizzle hitting the window and blurring the lights, shifting them out of focus. John realises the hum he thought had grown up out of the silence is really just the group of girls outside, voices joined in a calm, peaceful rendition of 'And I Love Her'. He feels the weight of Paul, warm against him and snuffling rhythmically into the silence, and lets his eyes shut for a moment.

Maybe one day, John thinks, he'll find someone he loves more than Paul. Maybe then he'll get out; maybe it'll be good for his sanity.


End file.
